"Fulvia! Why, Nigel—what should be the matter? Nothing is, of course. Nothing is ever the matter with Fulvia," declared Daisy. "Why should you think anything was? She has only made a fine mess." "She doesn't seem to be herself." "I don't think anything is wrong," said Anice. Nigel made no answer, but he resolved to use his own eyesight. Mrs. Browning could think of nobody except her husband; and Daisy was a mere child; and Anice, like many quasi-invalids, objected to others besides herself being counted deserving of attention on the score of health. Her father's condition she had to put up with; but Fulvia and Daisy were always to be strong, and she was always to be the one cared for. In fact, Anice liked a monopoly of delicate health. "Fulvia is not as she used to be," Nigel said to himself; and though she came to prayers in a few minutes, wearing an extra cheerful air, he did not alter his opinion. If she were not unwell, she was in trouble. He could not resolve which it might be. Mr. Carden-Cox sat in his study, late that afternoon, before a blazing fire, lost in cogitation. It was a comfortable room, containing everything that might be desired by a bachelor of moderate means. Nobody counted Mr. Carden-Cox wealthy, but everybody knew that he had enough to "get on upon." In his mode of living he was neither lavish nor stingy. He gave away a good deal; but always after his own fashion—which means that he refused everybody's requests for money, yet did a good many unknown kindnesses. He was an eccentric man; something of an enigma to people generally. Nobody could ever guess beforehand, with certainty, what Mr. Carden-Cox would do, or how he would do it. He had never been married. This fact everybody knew, while few could tell the wherefore. Perhaps two or three, among his acquaintances, looking back nearly a quarter of a century, might speak of the time when Arthur Carden-Cox, then close upon forty in age, had showed signs of being "touched" by the rare charms of that wonderfully fair young creature, Clemence Duncan. But few had thought much of it. All men who came within her range were fascinated, without effort on her part. The question was not, whether she would marry Albert Browning or Arthur Carden-Cox, but upon which among a dozen ardent suitors her choice would fall. Arthur Carden-Cox had not seemed by any means the most ardent; and when Clemence Duncan became Mrs. Browning, others were more pitied. However, those others had comforted themselves, sooner or later recovering; and all of them, now living, were middle-aged men, married and with families. Arthur Carden-Cox alone had made no further effort to find a wife. He had been long and late falling in love; and once in he could not easily fall out again.